Until they were pushing their way down the narrow stairs, caught up in the thick, jostling crowd trying to leave the theater. Someone trod on the hem of her gown, making her stumble. She felt a jolt of panic as she fell forward, and she flung out her hand to catch herself on the rough wall.
Instead of unyielding whitewash, she fell against a warm, hard body. Strong arms closed tight around her, lifting her from her feet and twirling her out of the melee.
Her breath caught in her throat. Elizabeth found herself pressed tight to the paneled wall of a private box, her arms twined around a man’s neck. In the dim light, she could barely see the outline of her rescuer’s face, the rich plumes of a pearl-trimmed cap. He held her as if she weighed no more than one of those feathers, his hard, muscled arms around her waist.
“Thank you, sir,” she gasped.
He glanced at her—and a sizzling jolt shot through her, as if lightning zapped through the thatched roof and into her body. It was Edward Hartley who held her so close, his hot, hard body pressed to hers. In the shadows his cloud-gray eyes glowed with heat.
She couldn’t look away from him. The very air around them seemed to crackle, then grow very still. She felt like a bird poised on the steep edge of a roof, teetering, unsure, ready to soar—or plummet to earth.
Her hands slid up into his hair, which fell in glossy waves over the high, jeweled collar of his doublet. The rough-silk strands clung to her kid gloves, wrapping around her fingers. His eyes narrowed, and she saw a muscle flex along his jaw. He also seemed to hold his breath, as if he felt the same tension.
Slowly, slowly, he slid her to her feet, still holding her pressed to his chest. She could sense only him, the heat of him, the clean, spicy scent of him, wrapped all around her in the warm darkness.
His head lowered toward hers, a frown on his sensual lips as if he didn’t want to reach for her but couldn’t help himself. They were compelled together in that moment. She felt that terrible compulsion as well; she couldn’t seem to break away from it.
His lips brushed her cheek, his breath warm on her skin. She sighed and shut her eyes, swaying closer.…
“Aunt Bess! Where are you?” she heard Jane call from outside the box. It was like a dash of icy water, waking her from the sensual haze of a dream.
Elizabeth jerked herself out of Edward Hartley’s arms. “I—thank you, my lord,” she whispered, and ran back out to the stairwell on shaking legs.
She pressed her palm to the wall for a moment to steady herself. Once she felt calmer, cooler, she dared glance back through the doorway at Edward.
He stood with his back to her, perfectly still, leaning his forearm on the paneling. A gold signet ring gleamed on his smallest finger. For an instant, she wanted to run back to him, to feel his lips on her skin again.
“Aunt Bess!” Jane called from down the curve of the stairs, and Elizabeth knew how foolish she was being.
I am becoming just like those foolish Court women, she thought sadly. She had to banish these longings at once, before she was lost in them.
“Here I am, Jane,” she said, and hurried down the now-empty stairs to find her niece at the next landing. She took Jane’s hand and walked with her into the bruising light of day. The scents of Southwark—the pungent gutters and ditches, the sharpness of chimney smoke, the press of unwashed bodies in the yard, almost erased the memory of Edward’s body against hers, the smell of him in her throat.
Almost.
Edward closed his eyes, listening as Elizabeth Gilbert ran away from him and down the stairs. It felt as if his every sense was heightened, focused on one point—her. He could hear the rustle of her skirts, the tap of her shoes on the wooden floor, the rush of her soft breath. He could still smell her rose perfume, feel her softness under his hands.
His body was steel-hard with desire, clamoring to sink itself into her welcoming, wet heat. He was painfully aroused—by Elizabeth Gilbert, of all women!
And she had wanted him, too, if only for that instant when she forgot herself and forgot who he was. He’d seen it in her eyes, the glowing light in their starry depths, felt it in the pliable warmth of her body. When she’d swayed toward him, her soft lips parted…
“God’s teeth!” he muttered, and drove his fist into the wooden wall. He could barely feel the impact—his body still ached with wanting her.
How had he never seen before how truly beautiful she was? How she hid her longings under her correct, icy exterior?
By damn, but he did not need this distraction now. Not when he was finally so close to having his revenge.
“There you are,” he heard Rob Alden say. His friend’s boots clattered on the stairs as he came up from the tiring-house behind the stage. “Ready to pay a visit to Mother Nan’s bawdy house? I hear she has a new girl there who can verily suck the Thames dry.…”
Now that sounded promising. Just what Edward needed to drive away fantasies of Elizabeth Gilbert’s soft lips and slender body. That body naked, waiting for him on a rumpled bed—or on her knees before him.
Mother Nan always had the prettiest girls in her house. Perhaps he could even find one with red-brown hair and a ladylike demeanor. And yet that image of Elizabeth in his bed wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he tried to make it. She was still there, watching him, waiting, and no counterfeit would do. Surely he would be no good for Mother Nan or her pretty Winchester geese tonight.
“Maybe another time, Rob,” he said as he pushed himself away from the wall. “I have some important business to arrange.”
Chapter Three
“Now, Jane. Tell me what you are about.”
Elizabeth watched as Jane squirmed on the carriage seat and stared down at her gloved hands. “I—I don’t know what you mean, Aunt Bess.”
“Oh, my dear. You are such a terrible liar,” Elizabeth said with a laugh. Her niece had obviously never been to Court, where prevaricating and deceiving were an art form. Individuals never dared to show their true feelings there or they would be destroyed. She herself had been forced to become most adept at maintaining a serene facade. Without it she could never have recovered from her encounter with Edward so quickly.
At least outwardly she had recovered. Inside she was still trembling.
“Tell me, Jane,” she said. “Is something amiss?”
The girl crumbled with a choked sob. “Oh, Aunt Bess! It is the most terrible, dreadful thing.”
Alarmed, Elizabeth reached for her hand and clutched it tightly. She had not been blessed with children herself, and Jane was the closest thing she had to a daughter. She loved her so much, and the thought that she was going through something dreadful pained her terribly. “Are you ill?”
Jane shook her head. “I almost wish I was. I am in love!”
Elizabeth almost laughed aloud with sheer relief. But her niece looked so miserable she knew laughter wouldn’t help. “Oh, Jane, dear. Is that all?”
“All? Aunt Bess, it is terrible!” she wailed. “My parents insist I must marry Sir Thomas Sheldon. They won’t listen to me when I tell them I have already pledged my troth to Walter. They made me go to a betrothal dinner at Sir Thomas’s home last week and it was awful.”
Sir Thomas Sheldon. Elizabeth felt suddenly as if her blood turned to ice water in her veins. Nay—surely not even her brother-in-law could be so cruel? Sweet Jane, wed to Sheldon? He was one of the most infamous men in London, cruel and cold even by the standards of Court. He ruined innocent lives and stole fortunes, had been married twice already and buried those wives. It was whispered that they’d died of abuse. Yet he was clever and had not yet been caught in any crime. His vast fortune protected him.
Jane could not marry him! She was right—it was dreadful indeed.
“He has offered them a great deal of money for my hand,” Jane said with a sniffle. “And Walter…”
Elizabeth’s head was still spinning at the thought of her dear niece sold to a lecher and a cheat. “Who is Walter?”
A gleam
of hope replaced the despair on Jane’s face, and she smiled. “Walter Fitzsimmons. Oh, Aunt Bess, he is the most wonderful man! He is the nephew of Viscount Carrick, and quite well placed in the world, with an estate of his own—even if he is not as rich as Sir Thomas. I met Walter at the shops one day when Mama let me out with only my maid, and we have been meeting in secret since then. He is so handsome, and so kind! He wants to marry me, and I know we would be happy together.”
“But your parents refuse?”
“They won’t even meet with Walter, and they won’t listen to me at all!” She collapsed against Elizabeth’s shoulder with a sob. “Walter is leaving on a journey to France and Italy soon, and surely by the time he returns I’ll be married off. Oh, Aunt Bess, what should I do?”
Elizabeth gently patted her niece’s trembling shoulder. “Shh, my dear, don’t cry. It will all be well.”
“How can it be? I will die if I have to marry Sir Thomas! The way he looks at me—it is disgusting.”
Elizabeth remembered too well how it felt to be Jane’s age, to be full of romantic hopes and dreams. And she remembered what it was like to have those dreams crushed in the bed of a clammy-skinned old man. It killed a girl’s spirit day by day, inch by inch, until there was only coldness left.
She had had no Walter to save her; she’d had only herself. She had survived, but Jane was made of more fragile stuff. And Thomas Sheldon was a villain indeed.
Elizabeth held the girl close as her mind raced. Jane was like her own daughter, and even if she had to fight the whole world she would save her.
“You say young Walter is to leave for France soon?” Elizabeth said slowly.
“Aye, within the week,” Jane whispered.
“And I assume he has passports for himself and at least one servant?”
Jane slowly sat up, blinking. “I—I suppose so.”
A plan slowly formed in Elizabeth’s mind, one that probably came from a stage plot. It was daring and dangerous, but it just might work.
“Then listen to me carefully, Jane,” she said, holding tight to her niece’s shoulders. “I will persuade your mother to let you stay with me for a couple of days before your Walter leaves. Gather what money and jewels you can, and we will have to find you a page boy’s clothes. Send Walter a message, and tell him to be ready to fly at my word.”
“I’ve had word from my friend who works for the girl’s father,” Rob Alden said as he slid onto the tavern bench across from Edward. “She is to visit her aunt, who has a house on the Strand, tomorrow, and a carriage is ordered.”
“God’s wounds, Rob, but do you know everyone in London?” Edward asked. He poured a goblet of ale from the pitcher he had been draining, and pushed it over to his friend.
Rob laughed. “A man in my position needs connections wherever he can find them. But what happens next is up to you.”
Up to him. Edward took a deep drink of the rough ale. He had been waiting for this moment for so long, and now it was at last within his grasp. He had to strike.
“The aunt in the Strand,” he said. “It isn’t Lady Elizabeth Gilbert, by some chance?”
“The very one. Do you know her?”
Not in the way he wanted to know her, he didn’t. He remembered holding her so briefly in the theater, her body against his, her eyes wide as she looked up at him in that one unguarded instant. It was absurd to feel such a hot surge of lust for Elizabeth Gilbert! The cool, serene, untouchable widow. Surely he had been without a female in his bed for too long, and that was all it was.
“It won’t be easy to get the girl away from her,” Edward said.
“A dragon, is she?”
“With icicles shooting from her fingers.”
“Well, my friend could be persuaded to detain the coachman for a price,” Rob said. “A quick switch when Mistress Courtwright stops at a shop…”
Edward almost laughed aloud. He did have a reputation at Court as something of a rogue among the ladies-in-waiting, but he would never have thought he could stoop to kidnapping a young woman. There were too many willing ones around for such villainy. But he would do what he had to—to let his brother rest in peace at last.
“Rob,” he said. “I think you have the beginning of an excellent plan.”
Chapter Four
Elizabeth eased back the hood of her cloak to watch out the carriage window. The ship carrying Jane and her new husband to their new life abroad slipped away from the dock on the evening tide and moved off down the river toward the sea. By the time Jane’s parents realized she was gone, she would be well on her way to France, and her marriage would be consummated.
And Elizabeth, safe back at Court, would know nothing at all.
“We’ve been terribly deceived,” she whispered in her best “shocked and appalled” voice. Then she laughed and blew a kiss to the departing ship. “Godspeed, my dearest niece. Be happy now.” She tucked the small bag of papers Jane had left with her under the seat, and rested her feet on it. Jane had said they were for safekeeping, something she had taken from Sir Thomas’s desk when she went to their ill-fated betrothal dinner. Elizabeth was too tired to look at them now.
She sat back on the velvet-covered seat and closed her eyes. These last few days had been quite frantic, full of plans and arrangements, and she hadn’t been sure until this moment that the scheme would come off. Now Jane was safe, and Elizabeth was exhausted.
The night outside her carriage was very dark now, and she should be on her way home. The house would be so quiet with Jane gone. Her whole life would be quiet now. Quiet, peaceful, and—boring?
There was a sudden loud thud above her head and the carriage rocked. Startled, Elizabeth lowered the window and peered outside.
“Is all well?” she called. She could see the dark, muffled figure of the coachman in the night.
“All well, mistress,” he said hoarsely.
“Then let’s return to the house,” she said. She fell back as the carriage lurched into motion.
The rocking movements lulled her into a drowsy state for a time—until she woke with a start and peered outside again. All she could glimpse beyond the window was the shadow of trees in the moonlight. There were no crowds, no torchlight, no houses.
They were no longer in London.
Elizabeth’s stomach clenched in a hot rush of panic. She was being abducted! She pounded on the door and shouted, “Stop at once! Turn around!”
The carriage only went faster, bouncing along the rutted country road so hard she was thrown from the seat. She screamed as loudly as she could and kicked at the door, but she was trapped. If she threw herself out she would be killed for certain.
Perhaps that would be better than whatever awaited her once the carriage stopped.
“How can this be happening?” she moaned as she pulled herself back onto the seat. She had heard terrible tales of such things, kidnappings and ravishings. But that usually befell young heiresses, girls forced to marry their captors, villains who were after their fortunes.
But she was no virginal heiress.
She screamed until she was hoarse, to no avail. At last the carriage slowed and came to a halt in a clearing deep in the woods. The sudden stillness seemed somehow even worse than the wild ride. Who knew what would come along to fill that silence?
Elizabeth gathered her cloak tightly around her and slid as far back on the seat as she could. She had never considered herself a coward; a person had to be strong to make her way in the Queen’s thorny Court. Yet she couldn’t stop shaking.
The door suddenly flew open and a tall, black-cloaked figure appeared there. He was outlined in the chalky moonlight, and his face was half covered with a scarf. But she could see how broad his shoulders were and what long legs he had. How could she fight him off or outrun him?
She only knew she had to try, no matter what.
“My sincere apologies for the rough journey, mistress,” he said hoarsely. His accent was refined, though, elegant and smooth, like any Co
urt gallant. This was no ordinary highwayman or dockside ruffian. “I feared you would accept my invitation no other way.”
Elizabeth sucked in a deep breath and dragged all her courage and dignity around her. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I insist you return me to London immediately!”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” the man answered. “But you needn’t fear. You will not be harmed.”
Not be harmed? What did the villain call kidnapping her? A surge of hot anger swept away the fear. “Filthy bastard!” she screamed. She launched herself at him so suddenly he couldn’t step out of her way. Her nails scored his cheek and tore the scarf aside. She wrapped her arms around his neck and wouldn’t let go, kicking and twisting.
“Vixen!” he growled. He caught her about the waist in an iron grip and swung her off the ground.
A ray of moonlight fell across his exposed face. To her shock, she saw it was Lord Edward Hartley who had abducted her.
And unbidden, mixed up with the fear and anger and fury, was something else, something strange and unfamiliar, totally inappropriate.
A twinge of quicksilver excitement.
“You,” she gasped. “Edward Hartley. They do say you’re a rake of the first order, but I would not have expected this.”
He stared down at her, the blood she had drawn stark on his cheek, and shock vivid in his glowing gray eyes. “Oh, God’s wounds, no. It can’t be.”
Chapter Five
“Blast you! Let me out at once! The Queen shall hear of this, I promise you that.”
Edward paced the length of the small cottage floor and back again. He wanted with all his strength to drive his fist into something, kick the wall—turn back time to erase this mistake. He had to be rid of his damnable temper, to think calmly in order to fix this mess.
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